


epilogue

by heavyliesthecrown



Series: book of love [1]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, the end of the book as we know it, they're all happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 03:31:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13158360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavyliesthecrown/pseuds/heavyliesthecrown
Summary: The end of the book.Or, Jughead's love-letter to all his friends.





	epilogue

Life is full of contradictions and ironies. I think it’s safe to say that for almost everyone, it never turns out the way you think it will. What you think has been destined in the stars may never manifest, or it may, but in ways you’d never expect.

The Town With Pep, hailed for decades by _Home and Garden_ magazine as one of the top ten locales in the tristate area for prime antiquing and day tripping, set the scene of a grizzly murder. The death of one of Riverdale’s Golden Children kicked off a series of events that exposed and laid bare “Pep’s” seedy underbelly. The maple syrup industry, that sweet and cloying amber liquid that was our town’s very own lifeblood, fronted a vicious heroin trade, though some say that the product is just as sweet, just as saccharine. I wouldn’t know.

When we were five, perched in someone’s tree-house with flashlights under our faces chasing away the night, when we were thirteen, each taking turns diving from our favorite tree branch into Sweetwater River, we thought life would be like that always. Always carefree, always simple, always easy. It was an idealistic view - we were just kids - but Riverdale, up until the death of Jason Blossom, let us feel that way. It made us feel that way.

But then, a mother left, a sister left. A father was shot, and more than one father jailed. Love blossomed, giving hope that even in a world slowly showing you it’s darkness, light could still be found if you only looked hard enough. Then love extinguished, faster than it would take to reach over and pluck a flower.

Life didn’t turn out the way we expected it to, and we didn’t turn out the way we expected ourselves to. We didn’t turn out the way we expected each other to. But maybe, that’s for the best.

 _**The City Girl** _**  
** The raven-haired princess never saw coming a fall from grace or expected to know anywhere else that wasn’t her penthouse suite with Manhattan at her feet. But through no fault of her own, she was thrown head-first into a town she’d heard of only when her mother mentioned it passing and always in hushed whispers. When her black town-car rolled up to her new apartment on the third - not the top floor of the building - death was already at her doorstep.

Veronica Lodge, who never had to lift a finger for anything before, was suddenly faced with the choice of sinking or swimming.

She swam.

She faced off with the town’s Queen Bee, fighting fire with ice and more often than not, left her foe frozen solid. She picked up a magnifying glass, pearls still firmly around her neck, and looked every inch the heroine Capote himself would never have dreamed of. She befriended those she would’ve likely made miserable in her past life, became their champion when she took down the football coach’s son, and showed them that you don’t have to be afraid to fight for yourself.

She, against her better judgment and against everything she’d ever known growing up, let herself love the boy that we all thought, until she came along, was destined for someone else.

She, instead of succumbing to the pressures of joining the family business that she’d been groomed to take over in a detailed ten-year plan, struck out on her own. But she didn’t strike out, because that’s not the Veronica Lodge way. And now, her name is her own. It’s affixed to the back of Audrey Hepburn inspired dresses and etched onto purses that have a six-month waiting list to purchase. Her name is something no one can ever take from her.

If there’s one thing Veronica Lodge has proved time and again, it’s that even after the only life you’ve ever known has been burned to the ground, you can rise from the ashes and to become someone better, someone more beautiful and more brilliant than the someone you were before.

 _**The Quarterback** _**  
** I used to think that Archie Andrews had it easy. He had football and he had the entire town behind him screaming his name and cheering him on. I watched from the stands. He was attractive in a way that girls just naturally flocked to. I had a funny hat to go with my funny name. He had two parents who loved each other and a house on a street where there was a minimum and maximum height for cut grass. I had half of a parenting team and a tin trailer on the Southside with heating that would only work if you kicked in just the right place. He had the love of the girl next door, and later, the mysterious Manhattanite.

I used to think that Archie was the luckiest guy to ever walk this earth. But then, his mother left him too, and once in a blue moon, after we exhausted everything else we could think of to talk about and only in the still of the darkest of nights, he’d ask me quietly, _“do you ever feel it? That pain that hits you all of a sudden, and out of nowhere? That pain that comes from being left behind? Do you think it’s because we weren’t good enough?”_

 _“Yes,”_ I’d tell him. _“I feel it, too.”_ But I’d never really know how to answer the rest.

The Quarterback picked up a guitar one day and the rest of his team laughed in his face, a very unsportsmanlike move. And even after he won them over, he had to do it all over again in college and prove himself to bona fide musical geniuses that may have actually been born with bows and beats in their hands and hearts. He faced rejection after rejection when he mailed out his demos, and he wondered out loud which was worse – the ones that arrived back unopened or the ones that were likely sitting in some music agent’s trash.

But if there’s one thing Archie Andrews is known for, it’s his near pigheadedness in not giving up on anything – not music, not the raven-haired girl who couldn’t tell him she loved him, and not even me. So, I’d tell you to check out his music but if the charts are any indication, you probably already have.

That’s the kind of guy Archie is. He sticks with the things that he cares about and the people he loves. He’s the friend that always has your back, the one that takes you into his home – no questions asked – and graciously blows up the leaky air mattress with a bicycle pump for you when you have nowhere else to go. He’s the friend that pulls you to your feet in first grade after Susie Stapleton pushes you off the bench you were sitting at alone, just trying to eat your thinly spread peanut butter sandwich in peace, and he’s the friend that will say to you without missing a beat, _“come sit with me and my friend Betty! She has Scooby-Doo Band-Aids and I’m sure she’ll give you one.”_ He’s the friend who calls you at seven-sharp every Friday night saying _“dude, I accidentally ordered too much from Pop’s again, come help me eat,”_ even though you know there’s been no “accident” because when you get there, what’s waiting for you is a double-cheeseburger with pickles, and Archie is allergic to pickles.

It would be wrong to represent Archie Andrews’ life as a walk in the park, because I know for a fact that it hasn’t always been. I mean, if you’re friends with the likes of me, it’s safe to say that nothing is entirely easy because I’m not an easy person to deal with, or so I’ve been told. But no matter how hard life gets for Archie, he doesn’t give up. I don’t think he knows how to.

And if you’re wondering about the fate of a certain red and raven-haired couple, all I’ll say is that at least from my vantage point, my best friend looked as though he’d fight through all the ups-and-downs of the phenomenon we call “modern dating” again and gladly, because hearing those two words from her mouth, the words that would bind them together for better or worse, for richer or poorer, was to him, worth everything and more.

But that’s about as much as you’ll get from me. I do my best to stay out of other people’s relationships. Conscientious objector, and all that.

 _**The Girl Next Door** _**  
** She was perfect and beautiful. She grew up in a family that would serve takeout pizza on bone china, while I perfected the art form that is tearing up the delivery box as a makeshift plate. They weren’t impressed with me or “art” at all when she shared the knowledge with them one night instead of using aforementioned china plate. I stand by my decision. She grew up in a house that _other_ people would stand in front of to take their Christmas card photos because it was just that charming.

She was never meant for me, and I knew that from the day I climbed through her bedroom window and stood in front of her nervously, just hoping that she’d only slap me for brazenly kissing her instead of shoving me right back out that god damn window.

She didn’t slap me. She didn’t shove me. The girl next door, always full of surprises, kissed me right back.

I can’t tell you what it felt like to be picked by the most beautiful girl I’d ever known, the cheerleader, the straight-A student, the chair of the homecoming committee, the editor of the Blue & Gold, the Ivy League graduate, the girl who likes of which Riverdale had never seen before. Trust me when I say it’s unlike anything else. It made me feel worthy, because how could you not feel that when someone like her sees something in someone like you? It made me feel like I belonged, even when I ambled through the town that tried to cast me to the wayside, because when the girl next door smiles at you with that look of love so plainly written across her face, you _do_ belong.

It made me feel invincible.

But with invincibility often comes recklessness. I don’t doubt that long before the leather jacket was even an issue – that one piece of worn, broken-in clothing that meant so much more than I wished it did – there was a ticking clock above our heads. The town wondered when the boy next door would finally wise-up and sweep her off her feet into the sunset on a white horse. Her parents laid in wait for the one mistake I’d make that would push her over the edge and hopefully, into the arms of someone else – anyone else – who wore jeans less tattered than mine. That clock drove me insane, that invisible, mocking tell-tale heart that was never there, and yet, always was.

So, I lived in the moment and lived _for_ the moment. I lived for the moments where she’d slip her hand into mine under the lunch table. The ones where we’d sit in companionable silence, side by side in the Blue  & Gold office, me waxing eloquent over the changes in the school’s parking lot system and her muttering to herself about kerning or the text not lining up. I lived for the moments where the moonlight would catch the gold of her hair and the green of her eyes just so, the ones where I would think to myself, _there is no one on this earth more beautiful than you._ I lived for the moments where she’d cup my face in the palm of her hand and say to me _“Juggie,”_ her eyes wide and betraying only complete honesty. _“I love_ you. _Only you.”_

I lived for those moments that she gave me, and dreaded the one where I would inevitably and irrevocably make a mistake that would take her out of my life once and for all.

And I made them. I made plenty of them.

But here’s the thing about Betty Cooper. She’s got a mind of her own. Neither I, nor the world could ever hold her back from anything she’s set her mind to, or anyone she’s set her mind on. She has loyalty that knows no bounds. And she has a capacity to forgive that is, as far as I know, unrivaled in this world.

Life isn’t perfect, and neither is she. The girl next door misses deadlines every now and then, and has set the oven timer to three hours instead of thirty minutes on more than one occasion, even though the firemen have told her sternly _be careful next time, ma’am._ The girl next door often forgets to put the toothpaste cap back on and is a blanket stealer. The girl next door will sometimes even stumble home at two in the morning with our resident City Girl singing _I Feel Like a Woman._ It’s never any other song. And then, after belting out a couple more of Shania Twain’s greatest hits, she may even end up on the bathroom floor, crying and hiccupping her way through an apology - not because she did anything wrong at all, but because the combination that is Veronica Lodge and her father’s Chardonnay collection just makes her emotional sometimes. I’ll admit, though, that this hasn’t happened in years. The girl next door forgets things. She makes mistakes and she has her bad days like everyone else. Objectively, she isn’t perfect.

But to me? She’s the very definition.

 _**The Self-Professed Loner** _  
And so, we end with me: the self-professed loner-weirdo from the wrong side of the tracks, turned Southside Serpent, turned ex-Southside Serpent, turned broke college student, turned less-broke freelance writer, turned hopefully-financially-stable novelist.

It’s been a long road. It’s been a road paved with good intentions and bad mistakes, of heartache and heartbreak. But it’s been a road that ultimately, has led me home.

I’ve spent many restless nights thinking about what makes a place feel like home. What makes a place _your_ home?

Here’s what I’ve come up with.

Home is simply something that draws you back. It’s like a magnet, like the ebb and flow of the ocean’s tides. For better or worse, home stays with you and snaps you back like a rubber-band no matter how far you go.

Home is the place with the haunts, the stomping grounds that molded you into who you are, whether you’re in the Town With Pep or the City that Never Sleeps. It’s the place where you can still see the long-gone drive-in in your mind’s eye and hear your little sister’s voice, shrill and _so loud_ in trunk of your dad’s pickup truck, telling you to _“move over, Jughead! You’re sucking up all the oxygen.”_ It’s the bar in Brooklyn where the Quarterback performs in front of a live city audience for the very first time, where backstage, you throw back a shot of tequila with him for moral support, even though you hate the stuff and think it tastes like gasoline.

Home is the large oak tree you hide behind in Central Park with your camera ready to capture the moment your best friend drops to one knee to ask a Very Important Question to the girl of his dreams, while _her_ own best friend weeps and sniffles loudly next to you, unwittingly ruining the video she’s taking. Again, she’s not perfect so no one holds it against her. In fact, it’s become a tradition to watch that video every year, even though no one can really hear anything other than _“Betts, stop crying – they’ll hear you,”_ and a whole lot of nose-blowing.

Thank god for my Canon.

Home is the four walls of the place you come back to every night and kick off your shoes, maybe crack a beer. Or in my case, it’s the place where you place your shoes _neatly_ on the top shelf of the coat closet, out of sight and out of mind, so that Caramel, the obnoxious-but-very-loved-by-certain-members-of-the-apartment cat, can’t claw at them even though you’ve invested heavily in multiple top of the line scratching posts for her that she, of course, has no interest in.

Home, for me, hasn’t always been comfortable and safe. When home was a closet under the stairs that led to second period English, I’d think about what the home of my dreams would look like and feel like. It would be warm, unlike the drafty projection box at the Twilight, unlike the trailer in Sunnyside; I’d never feel cold. It would be decorated with nothing but Tarantino posters, and maybe there would even be an actual kitchen where I could partake in the sheer thrill of choosing between more than Pop Tarts or canned corn for dinner.

We call them dreams, I think, because we somehow know that we’re thinking too big but dare to do it anyway. I never expected the vision that I’d build slowly and meticulously in my mind to manifest exactly as I pictured it. But I will say that it's come pretty damn close.

There’s, at least in my opinion, a lot of pastel going on in my apartment and in particular, a lot of pink. There’s only one Tarantino poster, and it hangs next to the TV; _Rebel Without a Cause_ hangs on the other. I’m fighting for my second Tarantino, but I’ve been told that _“it just doesn’t go with everything else, Jug.”_ I think it does. We’ll see.

But it’s warm. Even in the dead of winter when I’ve got two cold feet stuck underneath my legs because their owner, for reasons unknown to me just refuses to wear socks, it’s still warm. I’ve even had to turn off the heating a few times. Go figure.

Then, there are the things I’d never even dreamed of having, but things that I know for a fact I could never live without. There’s a vintage Underwood typewriter next to two computers set up side by side in the office just off the kitchen, and the soft voice of a newly minted _New York Times_ reporter sitting next to me and reading her copy out loud to the beat of my keyboard clicks. I will never tire of hearing that voice. There’s a shelf filled with a complete set of Toni Morrison’s novels, all first-editions, all signed, and there are framed pictures on practically every flat surface. There are whole two cabinets dedicated to my snacks alone, and a projector that’s really not functional for a New York sized apartment, but that still has someone or other coming over to use it almost every week. There’s a “sensible” pink futon that’s made its way into the apartment despite my very loud and very valid protests against it, but it’s grown on me. Archie holds the record for nights crashed on it much to the chagrin of his Uptown Girl. But she holds a close second.

Home is warm. It’s safe. It’s filled with the voices and laughter of the people who mean the world to me. So, I’ll put up with the pink and pastel since, all in all, I’ve got a pretty good set-up going for me.

Unless it starts getting out of hand.

Home, and this is the important one, home is the people – your people – the ones you miss before you even walk out the door for the day, the ones you can’t wait to see again, the ones who you’ll move heaven and earth for if only you could, the ones that you’ll protect with your life.

Home is the City Girl with the unironic pearls who tells you plainly and calmly when you need to hear it most, _“get your head out of your ass, Forsythe, you’re making this more difficult than it needs to be.”_ Home is the girl whose surprisingly snarky and biting commentary on every reality show under the sun has you thinking that maybe you have more in common with her than just your mutual love for the freckled red-head or the blonde who, to her credit, tries _really_ hard to stay awake through the Rose Ceremony or whatever it’s called, but who always ends up asleep on your shoulder by the Group Date.

Let’s just be clear – I meant that we have our brand of humor in common. I’m not talking about a shared love of _The Bachelor_ or anything like that. Sometimes, I just want to relax on the couch on a Monday night and it’s hard not to absorb by osmosis.

Home is your best friend who puts his life on the line for you more than once, the guy who will ride shotgun with you and your learner’s permit when you think that drag-racing a rival gang at sixteen is a Good And Fun Idea. Home is the Quarterback who never gives up on Southside Serpent, even when he doesn’t understand it, even when he doesn’t believe in it. Home is the red-haired musician who never fails to link your articles on his Twitter account with a _“hey guys! check this out!”_ and whose thriving teenage fan-base generates you more clicks-per-month than your own age demographic does.

Home is the girl who you love more than your mere words can ever express, the girl who stands steady and strong at your side through the good days and the bad, the girl who believes in you when you don’t believe in yourself. Home is the girl who gives you the chance to know what it means to give your whole self to someone else regardless of what lies beneath. Home is the girl who comes home after an entire day of staring at newspaper copy, tightens her ponytail, and sits down at the table with a red pen in hand because she promised she’d help proofread your latest pages. Home is the girl who will find those pages even if you hide them from her, who will ignore your pleas of _“please, Betts, you look so tired. This isn’t important right now.”_ Home is the girl who looks back at you with those earnest eyes and a hand softly on yours as she says simply, _“yes, Jug, it is.”_

Home is the girl next door because in this story, the story of the past, that’s what she’ll always be.

But in a way, home is also _not_ the girl next door. Not anymore.

Home is now the girl _inside_ the door – the girl inside _your_ door to the apartment you _both_ have keys to – the girl who stands behind you reading your words as you type them, her chin digging into your shoulder as she does, her arms wrapped around you tightly in a constant reminder that she’s here, that she’s real, that she loves you, too.

Finally, home is the person you never saw coming.

Home is Juliet Jones, the little four-year-old hurricane with a mop of unruly dark hair and her mother’s wide green eyes. Home is the mini Nancy Drew who asks you questions you don’t know the answers to while you’re making her sandwiches with pickles and no crusts, because really, what do you say to the question that is _“why does mom call you the same thing that she calls the water jug?”_

Correct answer: you’re both tall drinks of water. You’ve gotten good at spitballing.

Home is the gearhead in-training who can spend all day engrossed with her My Little Mechanic playset and not bat an eye at the obscenely expensive Barbie Dream House you searched all five boroughs for on Christmas Eve – she’s her mother’s daughter through and through. But home is also the mischievous rule-breaker who eats pizza just like you – without a plate in sight.

Home is the gift that quite literally, comes into your life screeching and wailing in the middle of the night, but that you love so completely, so unconditionally and with such enormity that it scares you sometimes. Home is the daughter you will do your best to stave off the darkness and demons for, the daughter you will do your best to carry her burdens for because heavy should never be the head that wears her father’s old crown beanie.

One day, I’ll tell her that her name doesn’t foreshadow despair or a doomed, fated future of star-crossed love; it’s one that symbolizes the strength of love and loyalty against all odds, against all logic. One day, I’ll apologize to her for the darkness I won’t be able to protect her from, and for the darkness that once made me into someone she may not always be proud of.

Finally, when she’s old enough to understand what home means, one day I’ll thank her. I’ll thank her for showing me that a home can be a place filled with joy and laughter, of pure and unadulterated happiness. I’ll thank her for giving me the chance to prove to her that the sins of the father are not those of the son, and that maybe sometimes, history doesn’t repeat itself. I’ll thank her for being a part of the home that I never thought I would have, the home that I never thought I deserved, but the home that I would never change for the world.

Back then, I used to think Archie Andrews was the luckiest guy in Riverdale. Now, I know it’s me.

 

_Dedication:  
To the girl next door-turned girl inside the door, my Hitchcock blonde, and my original Juliet – Betty Cooper-Jones._

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it and thank you for reading!


End file.
